


On Freud's Interpretation of Dreams

by matchsticks_p (matchsticks)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Hilarity, Humor, M/M, Psychoanalysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-29
Updated: 2010-09-29
Packaged: 2017-10-12 07:15:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchsticks/pseuds/matchsticks_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Eames found it surprisingly easy to seduce Arthur in a dream, and one time…<br/>(Note: I play fast and loose with the movie verse's dream rules, as well as abuse/misuse Freud's writings. But all in service of the LOLz, I assure you. There's also some non-explicit throwaway mentions of BDSM kinks.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Freud's Interpretation of Dreams

**i.**  
Eames is passing himself off as a gorgeous brunette, all legs and cheekbones and Eastern European accent, when it occurs to him that there's an alternative to just laying low until the job is finished. His part is done, Arthur's part is done, and they could do a lot more than sit on their hands killing time as long as they don't draw too much attention to themselves.

Considering how they're in an upscale swingers club where indiscriminate sex is strongly encouraged, Eames figures sliding one hand into Arthur's back pocket while pressing the full length of his voluptuous imaginary body against him can't be classified as attention-drawing behaviour.

He expects it to be funny, to see Arthur startle and awkwardly fumble his way out of an unwanted advance from a woman clearly miles out of his league. And it is, at first. Arthur's eyes widen comically and he swallows so hard that Eames can feel his Adam's apple bob where his woman's long, graceful neck makes contact with Arthur's. Arthur stammers, "I'm sorry—" and he knocks over the drink he just bought.

But then something shifts. Arthur stops trying to back into the bar counter behind him and looks into Eames's flawlessly shadowed eyes, calculating.

"You're very beautiful," Arthur says, voice husky, and okay, this isn't how Eames originally thought it would go but it's not exactly an undesirable development, either. Eames has always wondered what kind of kisser Arthur is, so he lets Arthur crush his mouth into his and finds that "thorough" makes a good adjective for Arthur's kissing style.

Their tongues and hands wander, and after the third time a projected club-goer jostles into them, Arthur pulls them into one of the tiny back rooms by the toilets, reserved for exactly what they're doing. Arthur tugs on Eames's forged hair, not rough, precisely, but with authority, like he knows what he's doing. Eames has his hands most of the way in Arthur's underwear when the creepiness of his own actions finally catches up to him.

Arthur doesn't know who he is, thinks it's a very female bombshell that's working her fingers ever closer to his cock. It was just supposed to be a joke. He meant to stop way before things got this far.

Eames backs off, clears his throat, tries not to moan at the distractingly hot sound of strangled disappointment that escapes from Arthur. He reminds himself that despite all the immoral things he's done that would make his mother weep, he doesn't actually want to add date-rape to the list. "There's something I should tell you," he says reluctantly.

"It better be good, Eames, because we were just getting to my favourite part."

Eames's head snaps up. Arthur's face gives nothing away.

"How long have you known?"

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Since you pushed those obviously fake breasts into my chest."

"Bullshit." Eames is the best in the world—there's no way anybody can tell his facades are facades just by feel. He's especially good at realer than real tits.

"Look, are we going to do this or what?" Arthur grinds his hard-on against Eames's thigh.

The answer to that is a no-brainer, as far as Eames is concerned. He works Arthur's trousers down with some effort, his illusion of a perfect manicure getting in the way. Arthur stops him with a hand on his shoulder just as he's getting ready to go down.

"You might as well drop it. Russian Doll #2 doesn't really do it for me."

Eames grins, flashing his own teeth between his own lips, finally. Usually, Arthur is full of shit, but sometimes he's full of surprises.

 **ii.**  
"According to Freud, dreams express unconscious desires that are too filthy for the conscious mind to even contemplate," Eames says.

They're sitting on the beach, on the shores of Cobb's subconscious, and Arthur is trying really hard to ignore the way Eames's nipples are visibly hard underneath his soaked shirt.

"Look at all this," Eames continues, waving his hand to indicate everything around them. "Gushing wetness and phallic, upthrusting skyscrapers as far as the eye can see. It's obviously all about sex."

They call it the Fischer Method, since the Robert Fischer job proved that you can resuscitate someone in a dream to bring them back from limbo. The Fischer Method involves killing someone in a dream while they're heavily sedated, and then following them into limbo. It's a last resort move for when you only have a few minutes to get a few days' worth of information, and it's just about as dangerous as it is stupid. Arthur immediately disapproves of anyone who even suggests it.

But Eames is the one who asked, and something about his rakish smile was almost more irresistible than the amount of money he offered.

Cobb is out of the business these days, but no one's ever really _out_. Arthur doesn't trust anyone else in the world enough to risk getting lost in their head, and Cobb's subconscious is as safe as any other now that Mal doesn't lurk there anymore. Cobb isn't really in on it—he's just in the first level dream with a defibrillator, waiting to wake them all from limbo when the job is done. And he's letting them use his subconscious like a rental space for this job, so the polite thing to do would be to not accuse their gracious host of having a dirty mind.

Arthur says as much to Eames, but Eames replies, "It's not accusatory. It's just fact. Look at that cave over there and tell me it doesn't look like a big, gaping vagina."

Arthur shoves Eames in disgust. Eames lets himself topple backward onto the sand with a laugh. They already got what they needed from their mark, who's already been resuscitated. Now they're waiting for their own kicks to bring them out of limbo. Cobb works fast, but a few seconds in his dreamtime is a few hours in theirs.

"It's not like I'm singling out Cobb," Eames says. "We all have sex dreams."

"I don't," Arthur says firmly.

"Sure you do. Freud says that all objects in a dream are references to forbidden ideas in real life. Dreams about snakes? Anxieties about penis size. Dreams about stairs? Preoccupation with who's on top and who's below. Dreams about fast cars shooting through dark tunnels? Definitely, definitely secretly about sex."

Eames is still lying on his back in the sand. He pitches his voice low so Arthur has no choice but to lean in close in order to hear him. A bead of saltwater rolls down his cheek, and Arthur finds it annoyingly difficult not to catch it with his tongue.

"So what are you getting at?"

"Nothing. Just wanted to let you know that we're in a realm of pure, unfettered sexuality, that's all," Eames murmurs. After a pause, he adds, "Have you ever wanted to try it on a beach?"

Arthur tells Eames he's not nearly as smooth as he thinks. And then he mutters "Oh what the hell" and gives in to the urge to have his way with that water droplet clinging stubbornly to Eames's face.

 **iii.**  
Cobb won't let them use his subconscious for jobs anymore, because they fucked inside his brain and now he sees their naked, sweaty, entwined bodies in vivid hi-def detail when he sleeps, sometimes.

So they use Eames's subconscious this time, and it's…well.

"Is there anything here besides the bed and the shelves full of sex aides? Or does the bed go on forever this way and the shelves stretch on to infinity that way?" Arthur asks.

"I'm not sure. Never been in my own limbo before, have I?" Eames peers at the nearest shelf of lube with genuine curiosity. "My subconscious has got expensive taste in personal lubrication, though."

"I thought dreams were supposed to express unspeakable ideas using socially acceptable metaphors. What would Freud say about _this_?"

"I don't know, maybe I have deeply repressed desires to drive a fast car through some tunnels?"

Arthur eyes the terrifyingly enormous dildos jutting from a shelf to his left. "I'd say you have a few penis size anxieties as well."

Eames flips him off. They explore Eames's limbo for several long whiles, amusing themselves with the breadth and variety of fetishes existent in this world.

"Really? You have an unconscious thing for this?" Arthur holds up a full-body latex suit with no openings besides the zip in the back and two tiny holes for breathing.

"If I were you, I'd probably be more worried about my apparent unconscious thing for this," Eames says, reaching across Arthur for what looks dangerously like jumper cables.

Arthur grabs him by the elbow just when he's off balance. "Ariadne doesn't have as much experience as Cobb. What if she can't get us out of here?"

"We'd get out eventually."

"Yes, but what if it takes us fifty years like it took Cobb and Mal?" Arthur glances at the giant dildo selection again. "What I'm saying is, I'm not having kinky sex with you for fifty years straight."

"What about just one year?" Eames teases, fondling the handle end of a cat o' nine tails suggestively.

Arthur ignores him, browses the shelves instead, nimble hands picking up and putting down various implements. He hits upon a velvet blindfold, and Eames observes with interest the way Arthur's pupils dilate.

"I might consider six months with this," he says, holding up the blindfold.

Eames smirks as he takes it from him. Arthur doesn't let it go at first, tugging on his end to get Eames's attention.

"I'll make it a full year if you're the one wearing it," Arthur says quietly.

Eames's smirk widens. He doesn't need to be told twice, ties the blindfold around his own eyes without a second thought and falls backward onto the vast bed of his subconscious, trusting Arthur to follow.

In this, as in everything else he does, Arthur doesn't disappoint.

 **4.**  
In the real, physical world, Arthur rolls his loaded die more out of habit than any need to make sure. It's too much to hope Eames won't notice, of course.

Eames lifts his head from his project of giving Arthur the perfect hickey on his chest and looks at the red die tumbling across the top of the bedside table. His laughter is a hot puff of air on the saliva-damp spot above Arthur's sternum.

"Am I so good that it's like all your dreams are coming true?"

"Oh, shut up." Arthur tries to direct Eames's attention back to the matter at hand by reaching down and cupping Eames's balls. Eames gasps, but he won't be sidetracked.

"Do you need me to pinch you?"

"Do you need me to _punch_ you?"

Eames laughs again, a fluttery breathless sound that hitches in time to the working of Arthur's hand, which has moved up to grasp Eames's cock.

The die lands like Arthur thought it would. His palm starts to get slippery with Eames's precum. His own erection slides easily in the groove between the muscles of Eames's hip and thigh. As much as Arthur wishes it's all just a nightmare, he really is about to have sex with Eames in the new bed they just bought for the new flat they just leased together.

This isn't a dream. This is reality, where his die always lands on 2 no matter how he rolls it, where the only surefire way to make Eames shut up is with a blowjob.

-end

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on livejournal 2010-08-15


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